


Baby-Steps

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, Post-Chosen, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From prompt set# 1, I chose the prompt Sparkle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby-Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.   
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Chosen/NFA, no spoilers.

“So, uh . . . what the hell was  _that_?”  
  
  
Faith doesn’t even have to stretch her legs to keep up with Dawn’s longer ones. For Dawn’s part, she doesn’t even try to out-walk her Slayer, anymore.   
  
  
It’s progress, of a sort.  
  
  
They pause briefly at the mouth of the alley, and let their eyes adjust to the slightly brighter air before stepping onto the street.   
  
  
“ _That_ ,” Faith tosses over her shoulder, walking first and faster this time, so Dawn has to scramble to keep up. “Was me kicking some unrighteous ass, and making it a little safer for my fellow Bostonians to stumble drunkenly home.”  
  
  
“Oh, is that what you think that was?” Dawn snorts. “I thought it was you showing off and trying to get yourself killed.”  
  
  
“And I think I’ve been kicking vampire butt since you were just a glowing green ball, Summers. Besides,” Faith leaves it hanging, then grins when Dawn looks at her questioningly, almost unwillingly. “Who would I be showing off for?”  
  
  
Dawn gives Faith the Summers Eyebrow of  _as if_ , and walks ahead, putting a several foot lead between herself and Faith.   
  
  
After taking a few moments to admire the view, Faith catches up.   
  
  
“You were reckless tonight--and for no reason!” Dawn’s shoulders are practically hunched up to her ears, and she’s leaning into her walk, as if she’s pushing against a stiff wind. “That fight was showy, sloppy--and totally unnecessary. I could’ve written my doctoral thesis in the time you spent sparring with and baiting him just for fun!”  
  
  
Faith's grin widens, almost nudging her ears. It’d been a hell of a fight. Enough to make her blood rush and run hot in the middle of winter. “Yeah, and?”  
  
  
" _And_ \--” Dawn stops and whirls around to face Faith, her eyes narrowed and sparkly with anger, her cheeks flushed. Even the ruthlessly pulled back hair is escaping its prison of clips and dark red scrunchy. Faith has always thought Dawn looked jailbait-young when she was angry (especially back when Dawn  _was_  jailbait-young), but tonight she looks every inch the confident young Watcher.   
  
  
Looks like a cross between Giles and a Skipper doll.  
  
  
“ _And_  you’re gonna wind up getting yourself killed or turned if you keep showing off and taking stupid risks!”  
  
  
“Is that so?” Faith tilts her head in that curious way that used to drive Robin, and after him, Andrew, six flavors of bugfuck. It doesn’t have that effect on Dawn, but Faith’s pretty sure what she says next will. “So, did Rupes write this little intervention for you, or did he just give you an outline and tell you to fill in the blanks?”  
  
  
There’s  _something_  in Dawn’s eyes, now. Not anger, precisely. “Do you not respect Watchers, period, or is it just me, in particular?”   
  
  
Faith blinks, momentarily at a loss. “I respect the  _hell_  outta you, Summers,” she says, a little surprised that she  _has_  to say it. And maybe that shows, because Dawn sighs and turns away, shaking her head.  
  
  
“You have a really weird way of showing it.”  
  
  
Then she’s walking again, neither fast nor slow, arms crossed, head down, and her breath huffing out of her mouth in brief, neat white plumes.   
  
  
“See, the way I figure it is,” Faith starts, mid-conversation, matching Dawn’s stride and posture. “Ya gotta love what you do, no matter what it is, right? I kill vampires for a living. It’s grim, nasty work that’ll probably kill me before I’m thirty-five. So I’m damn sure gonna try and find the fun side of it. Turns out I don’t have to look too hard, 'cause beatin’ the hell out vamps before I stake ‘em is like Club Med, for me.”  
  
  
“But it’s  _not_  a Club Med, Faith, it’s a job!” Dawn whirls on Faith, yet again, fists clenched at her sides, the escaped wisps of hair floating on cold slow currents of air. “You get in, you slay, you get out--hopefully alive.  _My_  job is to keep you that way. And you can imagine how much I’m loving my job at this moment.”  
  
  
“Look, Summers--Dawnie--” Dawn’s eyes aren’t sparkly or amused, and Faith feels vaguely guilty . . . like she’s disappointed the kid.  
  
  
 _The Watcher . . ._ my _Watcher_ , she has to remind herself when Dawn says: “It’s Dawn,” as if she’s been saying it for a long time, and Faith hasn’t been listening.  
  
  
“I seem to recall a time you didn’t care whether I lived or died. What happened to  _that_  Dawn?”  
  
  
Dawn crosses her arms and shrugs, looking down at her booted feet. “She grew up, Faith. That was a long time ago, and I  _was_ just a kid--”  
  
  
“You’re still kind of a kid.”  
  
  
“--and you’d tried to kill my sister, like, a bunch of times, so I was understandably biased.”  
  
  
“Understandably." Though it still hurts to admit, to acknowledge. The pain of it never gets easier, grows less. It just gets more bearable. "That's not the kinda thing one quickly forgives. Or forgets.”   
  
  
“Just because I forgave, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. But just because I haven’t forgotten, doesn’t mean I haven’t moved on,” Dawn says softly, with more compassion and understanding than Faith can comprehend or ever deserve.  
  
  
So she shoves her hands in her jacket pocket; it’s vinyl, tight, and very thin. Doesn’t protect from the cold at all, but she looks damn good in it. And anyway, Faith’s never had so much as the sniffles in her entire life.   
  
  
“I remember the first time I saw you, hidin’ behind Joyce, peeking at me with these big blue eyes, like you thought I was gonna eat you for dinner, then polish off mom and big sis for dessert. And you kept your eye on me the whole time I was there.” Faith laughs a little. “So, is all this--the worrying and mentoring . . . about what went down between B and me? Tryin’ to keep me from strayin’ to the dark side, again? Or just tryin’ to prove how enlightened you are?”  
  
  
“No!” Dawn explodes, but Faith thinks it might be--at least a little. Dawn’s hands reach up reflexively to tug her hair, another holdover from a nonexistent childhood. But her hair’s still swept sensibly up and back, unlike Faith’s. “It’s about what we  _are_. You’re a Slayer, Faith. I’m your Watcher. The only reason I exist is to keep you alive and fighting another day. Everything I do, everything I read--every breath I take is wrapped up in you, and keeping you alive. So when it seems like you’re determined to doubt my motives, and to throw your life away on some fledge who just might-- _might_ \--get a lucky shot, it really pisses me off!”  
  
  
“Look, I get--“  
  
  
“No, you don’t! You  _so_  don’t!” Dawn voice doesn’t crawl up into the whiny-brat registers it used to, but sinks like a lead balloon, cold and clipped. “You weren’t there when Buffy died. You didn’t see what it did to Mister Giles. How it . . . changed him. And there was  _nothing_  he could’ve done differently to save her, but it destroyed him to see her lying there like a broken doll in the ruins of that bitch-god’s tower. . . .”  
  
  
For a moment, that cold voice wavers, cracks, but it evens out, quick enough, and Dawn looks up at Faith, now, and she’s--  
  
  
“You don’t have any  _idea_  what it does to a Watcher to see her Slayer die, and be able to do nothing to save her. But if you keep pulling  _juvenile_  shit like tonight,  _I’m_  gonna find out firsthand how it feels. And it’ll be worse for me, because you’ll die doing something  _stupid_  and  _I’ll have failed to prevent it!_ ”  
  
  
Practically shaking with rage--not the first time Faith’s driven a Watcher to that state--Dawn’s eyes seem to glow green like witch-fire in the yellow, sodium-vapor half-light of the distant street-lamps.  
  
  
 _She’s fucking gorgeous_ , Faith realizes, dismayed. It’s like a dash of cold--no,  _scalding_  hot water to the face, and . . . other places.   
  
  
“Well, damn.” She sighs and it makes Dawn scowl harder, taking at least ten years off her age.  
  
  
“What?”   
  
  
In that moment, Faith recognizes the signs in herself. She’s been well and truly snared, and the fact that not-little-anymore Dawnie Summers did the snaring is pretty surreal. “You know, not for nothin’, Summers, but you’re fucking  _gorgeous_. Especially when you’re servin’ me my ass on a platter.”  
  
  
Surprise softens Dawn’s resolve-face, turns her mouth into a shocked, gloss-pink little “O” that Faith wants very much to kiss.   
  
  
“Oh. My.  _God_ , you really just don’t give a shit about any of this, do you?” Dawn demands, voice cracking again, this time soaring up into that too-high register that could take the paint off a Buick. “You think you’re invincible? Well, you’re so  _not_! You're not invincible, you  _don't_  know everything, and--and--you don't dress  _appropriately_  for Boston-slaying! That's right, you heard me, Ms. Wears-vinyl-jackets-and-leather-pants-on-patrol, which, by the way--“  
  
  
Mid-tirade, Faith’s Watcher gets the surprise of her life when Faith grabs her by the lapels and yanks her forward into a kiss that cuts off an outraged squeak.  
  
  
Dawn’s mouth is warm and wet . . . vaguely cinnamon-y from her chewing gum. Her lips are soft and sweet and they part with little coaxing from Faith’s tongue. They taste like--  
  
  
“Bubblegum lip gloss?” She asks when Dawn pulls away--a long time later--to catch her breath.   
  
  
“What? I figured you’d eventually get around to kissing me--not in the middle of my big Slayer’s job / Watcher’s job speech, by the way--and I wanted to be ready. A Watcher is always prepared. And plus, you know. . . .” Dawn leans in whisper-close, her lips feather-brushing Faith’s “. . . bubblegum lip gloss tastes good, and makes me feel pretty.”  
  
  
The next kiss ends too quickly, cut off by an attack of the giggles neither of them can help.  
  
  
“Okay, I’m liking you as my Watcher a lot better than I liked Andy, bless his geeky little heart.” Faith steps back a little. Just far enough to look, but still close enough to feel the warm ghost of Dawn’s body.  
  
  
“Bet Andrew doesn’t wear bubblegum lip gloss.” Dawn’s flushed, but not blushing. She looks like the cat that got the cream . . . she’s grown up, alright. “But then again, this is Andrew.”   
  
  
Faith smirks. “You really wanna know what kinda lip gloss he wears, ask Xander.”  
  
  
“Yeah, I--wait,  _what_ \--?”  
  
  
But Faith's sliding her hands into Dawn’s navy peacoat, around her waist, pulling her close. “Dawn, I get it--I  _do_ , that it’s your job to keep me prepared and keep me alive. And I get that you take your job very seriously. Believe me, I get  _all_  that. But I’m not gonna live long enough to get the gold watch come retirement, ‘kay? That’s something you’re eventually gonna have to accept.”  
  
  
“I don't accept that. I  _won’t_.” Dawn takes a deep breath, holds Faith’s gaze steadily--holds  _Faith_. “And neither should you.”  
  
  
 _She really believes that_ , Faith thinks, searching Dawn’s eyes and finding not a shred of doubt. The sparkle there is different now than when she was angry--different even from a few moments ago. That hazy, luminous glow has been replaced by something harder, older. The kind of determination Faith can only describe as: best not fucked with.  
  
  
“Jesus, Dawn, I’ve already lived longer than any Slayer on record--except B." Faith lets Dawn go and backs away a bit. Shoves her hands back in her jacket pockets. "I’ve lived so much longer than I expected--every year since my nineteenth birthday is just icing. If I live another five years, it’ll be enough.”  
  
  
Dawn looks skeptical, and the longer Faith lives, the harder that is to make herself believe, too.   
  
  
It’s an addictive thing, life. Even when it sucks.  
  
  
“Faith, I interned with Mr. Giles, studied practical magic with Willow’s coven, was a journeyman in the field with Buffy and Xander . . . I was valedictorian of my class--” Dawn’s grin is toothy and huge, endearingly cocky. “Plus, I’m a mystical key-thingy that grew up on the Hellmouth. If any Watcher’s gonna be able to keep up with you--keep you from catching a dose of prematurely dead . . . it’s me.”  
  
  
 _Why--so I can die of old age? Natural causes?_  Faith wonders without bitterness.  _I was born fighting, born_ to fight. _What would it look like if I died in my sleep surrounded by grandchildren?_  
  
  
But Faith just sighs, and against her common sense--and for very brief moment, believes. Sees a future version of herself, with grey hair and sensible canvas shoes, training a new generation of Slayers with her Watcher by her side. A Watcher whose hair is only slightly less grey, who wears shoes that are at least twice as sensible . . . and still has magic sparkling in her eyes and smile.  
  
  
 _Yeah, and we’ll live happily ever after, too, right? I don't think so._  Faith shakes it off, clears her throat and manages to meet Dawn’s gaze again. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. I’ll try and be more careful, and not big-time it so much, just ‘cause I’ve got an audience. Happy, now?”  
  
  
“Ecstatic,” is the bland reply. Dawn holds out her arm, and it takes Faith a moment to get there, but when she does, she rolls her eyes. Then thinks,  _what the hell?_  and takes the proffered arm.   
  
  
Dawn covers Faith’s hand with her own, like Lord-Fucking-Byron, or something. It’s cheesy, but Faith finds herself blushing and grinning as they stroll toward Boston Common.  
  
  
“Maybe next you could try wearing clothing with some sort of protective padding--or even light armor--”  
  
  
“Don’t push it, Summers.”  
  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn smiles . . . glows and sparkles like magic.  
  
  
“Baby steps,” she says contentedly. 


	2. Big-Timin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn thinks Faith's still showing off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.   
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Chosen/NFA, no spoilers.

_They really_ do _come out of the ground knowing a bunch of funky ninjitsu moves,_  Dawn has time to think as the fledgling strikes out hard and quick, stunning her hand. The stake falls, rolls away, and the vamp has her, is pulling her too close, far too fast. All she can smell is death and dirt and her own fear. . . .  
  
Then she’s staggering backwards, trying to keep from falling on her ass as the vamp is snatched away from her. After that, there’s nothing to do but lean against the Alder family’s mausoleum and watch the show.  
  
'Cause Faith  _always_  brings the show when she fights and, efficient or not, watching her move is like watching poetry in motion. Violent, bloody, sexy, kinetic poetry.  
  
After several minutes of hand-to-hand that's mostly a blur, Faith somersaults over the vamp’s head and nails him from behind with the stake Dawn had dropped.   
  
A small rain of grey dust drifts to her booted feet, and it’s over.  
  
“Serves ya right . . . fuckin’ skid.” Faith kicks at the dust and drops the stake. Despite her words, there’s a huge smile on her face and her eyes are lit up like Christmas when she looks at Dawn.  
  
“How was  _that_ , Summers?”   
  
Whoa, that smile . . . that smile makes Dawn’s heart--which’d only just begun the descent from her throat--shoot right back up behind her larynx.  
  
"Impressive," Dawn croaks. Her heart’s putting the squeeze on her voice box, but she can't help grinning. How can she, when she hasn't seen Faith smile this big in--ever? ”But if there was an instructional video on big-timing, that would’ve been it.”  
  
"Ah, c' _mon_ \--did you see that guy? He was Bruce Lee on crack! I  _hadda_  bring my A-game!" Faith exclaims around a laugh that says she'd be doing an end-zone victory dance if she weren't so too-cool-for-school. "I was rockin  _flair_ , babe, not big-timin'. There're subtle differences that aren't obvious to the untrained eye, granted. . . ."   
  
"Quack, quack, quack, says the big-timer." But a shiver takes Dawn’s body at  _babe_. And that shiver does  _not_  go unnoticed. Faith gets almost exactly the same look in her eye that she'd had while besting the late, unlamented Mr. Lee.   
  
"Alright, then. C'mon over here and I'll show ya, big-timin'," she purrs, beckoning Dawn closer with a gloved finger. One of several compromises made to Dawn’s persisting that Faith wear  _something_  in concession to the weather.   
  
 _In another month, I could have her wearing an anorak and mukluks,_  Dawn thinks smugly. Then has to admit:  _Probably not a hat, though._  
  
Still, the fun isn’t in the winning, it’s in the challenge.  
  
"Let's see you make me," she calls to Faith with a smirk stolen from Spike’s ginormous repertoire, unsurprised when Faith matches it with one of her own.   
  
"You’ve got y’self a five second headstart, precious. Four, three, two--“  
  
Dawn only makes it thirty yards away--hurtling headstones every few feet, heart pounding in her ears and throat as she whoops, sucking in cold Februaury air--before Faith catches her. Grabs her around the waist and easily hoists her up into a fireman's carry, marching back the way they came.   
  
“Big-timer!” Dawn’s breathing hard more from excitement than exertion. Though Faith’s shoulder in her stomach isn’t helping. "So not fair using Slayer speed!"  
  
"I play to win, Summers, you know that." Faith smacks Dawn on the ass, bending briefly to grab the dropped stake then she’s up and walking again, before Dawn can get even a hint of vertigo. "'Sides, if you really wanted to beat me at something, you'd have challenged me to Monopoly."  
  
"Or Scrabble. ‘Crux’ really  _is_  a word."  
  
"Not if no one uses it, it’s not."  
  
“I use it all the time!”  
  
Faith doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. Dawn’s weight doesn’t slow her, even a little. Her strides, for someone so short--shorter than Buffy, even--devour ground.  
  
Dawn sighs. “You know--my legs are fine, Neander-Slayer.”  
  
The hand on Dawn’s ass slides down the back of her thigh, then back up. “Won’t catch me disagreein’--here we go.”  
  
Just as faint nausea begins to war with the warm, down-low tinglies, Dawn's being lowered gently to a stone bench. The world spins before its pales and darks resolve themselves into a small copse surrounded by small trees and Faith kneeling in front of her, watching her with serious dark eyes.   
  
It would probably surprise Faith to know how unreadable she can be. That most of the time, even after five months of being her Watcher, and more than half that as her lover, Dawn is still mostly working with seat-of-her-pants instinct, where gauging Faith’s moods is concerned.  
  
"Hey," she says breathlessly, happily, because if the only thing she can be certain of where Faith is concerned is her own feelings and responses, she may as well be honest about them.  
  
Faith blinks at her wonderingly, and reaches up to caress Dawn’s cheek with cool, gloveless fingers. ”Hey, y’self,” she murmurs, a line between her eyebrows appearing and disappearing almost faster than Dawn can see.   
  
Then Faith kisses her. Softly, at first--uncertain, fleeting, feather-light kisses that make Dawn’s body flush and blanch, hot and cold till she scoots to the very edge of the bench. Faith’s hands slide under her coat, but settle on her waist, simply holding her.   
  
Holding her still, though she tries to follow when Faith sits back to look at her.  
  
"I'm not showin' off, I swear. It's just. . . .“ that there-and-gone frown line between her eyebrows and Faith is visibly steeling herself to say  _something_. When she says it, her voice is too soft, too calm. “It’s just that--you're my girl, and he tried to kill you. Far as I’m concerned, he's lucky all I did was put a stake in his heart."   
  
And Faith’s girl!Dawn--a new, but often heard from facet--is doing multiple cartwheels, which makes it really hard for watcher!Dawn to follow the conversation, comprehend the shadows in Faith’s eyes. "I--I, um, was the bait, remember? He was  _supposed_  to try and kill me. And, like always, you got the drop on him.”  
  
There’s a flicker of something else in Faith’s eyes now, something Dawn’s been seeing more and more of as their . . . relationship deepens.   
  
If she had to put a name to it, she might call it worry.  
  
She’d seen it enough in Buffy’s eyes, once upon a time--been impatient with it before she realized it was worry born not of a lack of confidence, but from the fear of losing someone she loved.  
  
Well. It’s maybe not exactly love in this case, what with the newness of  _them_ , and neither of them known for monogamy or healthy, long-term relationships.  
  
Not love, despite the fact that less of Dawn’s clothes now reside in her rooms at the New Council Chapterhouse, than at Faith’s apartment.  
  
Despite the fact that Dawn herself spends more nights at Faith’s than not.  
  
Despite the fact that Faith worries, and Dawn hasn’t stopped grinning for three months.  
  
No, not love. Not yet, anyway.  
  
“You okay, Dawnie?” Faith’s asking about more than the fact that Dawn has just spaced out for most of a minute. Her hands on Dawn’s waist are tense, jittering in a way that says she’s five seconds from checking for bruises, injuries and head trauma.  
  
“More than okay. And I’m very proud of you.” Dawn leans in for another kiss and is met halfway . . . this time with more than the usual desire and teasing, not less. “You’re my hero. Now, how ‘bout we go to  _Tableau_ , get cosmos and party like rock-stars."  
  
Faith snorts. Like hats, cosmopolitans are something this Slayer will likely never indulge in. “Change those cosmos to shots of Jaeger, and we’re in business.”   
  
“Deal-ski.” She lets Faith pull her to her feet and into her arms, swaying them both and grinning like a loon. “What?”  
  
“We’re so gonna hump like bunnies.” That grin is half-goofball, half-predatory, all for Dawn.  
  
"You--“ she gasps because one of Faith's hands has somehow made it under the layers of sweater, shirt, and t-shirt, to push up Dawn's sports bra. “--think so, huh?"  
  
"Mmhmm. I  _know_  so--“ Dawn shudders as one hand cups her breast and a slightly calloused thumb strokes her nipple to hardness. “I  _am_  your hero, after all--“ Faith’s other hand slides down the back of Dawn's pants to squeeze--possessive enough to make a point, but not enough to leave bruises. “Saved your life, and everything.”   
  
Before Dawn can reply, she’s being lifted and slung over Faith’s shoulder again. Apparently this, like drinking directly from the milk carton, is another one of those habits Dawn’s going to have to break her Slayer of . . . but later.   
  
“Are you gonna carry me all the way to  _Tableau_  like this?”  
  
Another hearty smack to Dawn’s ass. “Nah--just to the backseat of your car.”  
  
"Chivalry has been slayed,” Dawn announces. “And I think you should be brought in for questioning."  
  



	3. But the Shouting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faith's thoughts post-mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Chosen, no spoilers.

“Have you any idea what's to be done with me, now?”  
  
Faith stretches, leans back in her seat without opening her eyes. “Not a clue, sweetness. I'm just the hired muscle.”  
  
One thing to be said about fighting on the side of the angels: flying to exotic places in the New Council's private jet? Wicked-cool. The reason for flying to the most recent exotic place?  
  
Wicked, yeah, but not so much with the cool.  
  
Silence from the seat facing hers, and Faith starts to doze a little, despite the ache in her face. The flight is  _that_  smooth. The only thing about this mission that  _has_  been.  
  
Between Red and Andy constantly arguing about spells and lore,  _Xander_  and Andy sneaking around like teenagers and whispering to each other in French, like nobody knew they were boning each other--  
  
And Red getting her mega-bitch on because she and Kennedy are splitsville  _again_. . . .   
  
Faith hadn't had a moment to breathe since she got off the plane in Mali. In fact, this has been the longest three weeks she's had since busting out of prison.  
  
Now, thankfully, it's all over but the shouting. She's just one quick debriefing at New Council headquarters, and one business-class flight away from Boston, and Dawnie's arms.   
  
Faith can already see those bright, luminous blue eyes gazing into her own, smell the light, floral scent of Dawn's hair and taste those bubblegum-sweet lips under her own, laughing and gasping into that first kiss hello. . . .  
  
“And if my fate had been yours to choose?”   
  
Soft, sad tone and the rustle-chink of velvet rubbing against magically reinforced chains makes Faith open her eyes at last. Dark, haunted eyes meet her own, huge in a peaked face.  
  
“Would I still be myself, or more dust floating on an African zephyr?” Tears sparkle in Drusilla's thick lashes, but don't spill over onto her chalk-pale cheeks. Apart from the living darkness of her eyes, she looks like the dead thing she is. "Am I Drusilla, even now?"  
  
Like the polar opposite of the warmth and life that's waiting for Faith still so many miles away.  
  
“Surely these chains aren't necessary--not any longer?” Drusilla pleads, her voice quavering, that line between her brows growing deeper. She's got a white-knuckled death grip on the arm-rests. There's still blood and probably skin under her nails, and Faith represses a shudder. It's been a long time since any vamp gave her the wiggins.   
  
This is first time one  _ever_  left its marks in her flesh.  
  
“Like hell they're not necessary.” She wants to crack open about ten of those little tiny bottles of liquor ever plane seems to be equipped with and sleep till London, till her fucked-up face goes numb. But she promised Dawn she'd roll straight-edge--in every sense of the word--till the mission was over. She won't let this crazy bitch break her word for her. “You're not human, and I'm  _damn_ sure not stupid enough to unchain you.”  
  
Faith knows more than most whereof she speaks. That knowledge causes her words sound less than charitable. But fuck it. In a few hours, the vampire with a soul will be the responsibility of the New Council--won't be  _her_  problem, anymore.   
  
She grimaces and the sutures in her face pull tight. The scratches--muscle-deep, and likely to scar ugly--burn like a mother, but she doesn't flinch. Won't give the part of Drusilla that will  _always_  get juiced on causing pain the satisfaction of hers.  
  
"I'm sorry," Drusilla say in the smallest voice Faith's ever heard a vampire use. "For hurting you."  
  
After a few seconds she wilts under Faith's glare and looks away--out the window at the night sky. Anywhere but at Faith, who's closed her eyes again, and is instantly lost in the clear, remembered blue of Dawn's.   
  
 _I'm comin' home, babe,_  she thinks with relief, and the Dawn in her memory smiles. She can all but feel the soothing cool of tender fingertips on the fevered heat of her face. Hear the mixture of pride, worry and exasperation that have begun to mean: I love you.  
  
 _One more day, Dawnie. . . ._  
  
She and Drusilla don't speak for the rest of the flight.  
  



	4. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the events of "But the Shouting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Chosen, no spoilers.

It's almost eight in the morning when Dawn gets to Faith's apartment.  
  
  
 _Their_  apartment, though it hasn't felt like it since Faith went on the hush-hush, sooper-sekrit assignment in Mali. Three insanely long weeks without her Slayer, and after that first night, Dawn had gone to stay her old rooms at the Chapterhouse.   
  
  
First there was dusting, and cleaning out her refrigerator--the contents were struggling toward sentience and Dawn almost felt guilty for Arm & Hammering them into oblivion--every night thereafter was spent wandering the halls of the Chapterhouse, or training with whichever Slayers had insomnia that night.  
  
  
They were all very polite and respectful of her, one of the original Scoobies, but none of them were friends, or even contemporaries.  
  
  
Since Vi left for Wales, there'd been no one who really felt like a friend, but Faith--not that Dawn really noticed. For the past six months, she's had eyes for only one Slayer, only let one Slayer past the Wall of Watcher she'd worked for six years to create.  
  
  
That Slayer is due back from London tomorrow, thankfully. In less than twenty-four hours, Dawn will pick her up at the airport, hug her for, oh, five million years before sexing her to death in the back seat of the car.  
  
  
Till then, there's an empty--kinda dusty apartment--and a hungry cat waiting to be fed. After that, there's the commute back across town, and a meeting with the Senior Watcher, probably about the sudden rise in Murtha demon activity in the Brookline area. . . .  
  
  
It's been nearly a month's worth of similar make-work crap that didn't distract from the fact that this is the first time she's been apart from Faith for longer than a day, since arriving in Boston nine months ago. Even with Faith's return on the horizon, Dawn still doesn't feel right in her skin just yet. Feels restless and on edge, and will feel that way till her return fact instead of mere theory.   
  
  
She lets herself into the apartment with a sigh. "Naugahyde," she calls sweetly, shaking the bag of kitty treats. Faith's cat doesn't like or answer to anyone—not even Faith--but he'll respond to food, if nothing else. When it's chow-time, Hyde's  _anyones_  friend. "Hyde, I brought brekkie, come and get it. . . pretty-kitty. . . ?"  
  
  
No Hyde.  
  
  
 _Huh,_  she thinks, wondering if he'd somehow gotten out. He'd been a street cat before Faith adopted him, and he still occasionally made his impossible kitty way outside. Exactly how he accomplished this feat neither of them could figure out, though Faith swore there had to be magic involved.  
  
  
There's nothing lovable about Hyde whatsoever, his one saving grace being his disinclination to scratch up the furniture. But the thought that he may have gotten out and been hurt, or worse--that after all Faith's been through lately, the cat she took in is lost, or dead--  
  
  
“Naugahyde!” She calls one last time, dropping the kitty treats, reaching for her cellphone. She'll call London first, to make sure Faith's plane is still safely en route. Then the SW's office to have the meeting pushed back a couple hours. Then it's scouring the neighborhood alleys and crawlspaces because for some unknown reason, Faith loves that stupid cat and it'd break her heart if--  
  
  
“Mrrp.”  
  
  
Hyde strolls out of the kitchen licking his chops and looking rather full. His tabby tummy is noticeably rounded and he doesn't so much as glance in Dawn's direction on his way through the livingroom.  
  
  
He hops up onto the sofa agilely, but with a lack of the grace on usually sees in cats. He turns around once then curls up in a fuzzy, stripe-y ball . . . dead center of the sofa, his back to the tv.  
  
  
The prickles of low-grade unease that'd been itching under her skin and at the back of her brain cease. She deflates, sagging against the door, cellphone sliding forgotten back into her briefcase. Briefcase dropping unnoticed to the floor.  
  
  
Hyde's been recently fed--recently  _over_ fed--and Dawn hasn't been here since yesterday evening.  
  
  
Grinning, she bounds to the bedroom, heart in her throat, tears of relief in her eyes. Peers around the open door and sees--  
  
  
\--Faith curled up on her left side, hair covering her face. The blanket's half on the floor and she's rolled onto Dawn's side of the bed, hugging Dawn's pillow.   
  
  
She's wearing one of Dawn's nightshirts, which comes down almost to her knees. Despite that, and even from across the room, it's obvious she's covered in yellowing bruises that are still twilight-purple. In deep scrapes that are just starting to scab over.  
  
  
She's never seen Faith this  _marked_  after a fight. Not even after Buffy's initial reaction to their relationship--not even after the battle that sank Sunnydale.  
  
  
Dawn tiptoes into the bedroom, unaware that she's shedding the square-bear office clothes she always puts on for meetings with the SW--the demure pleated skirt with matching blazer, the off-white silk blouse, off-white silk slip, and the strappy fuck-me pumps Faith'd bought her for Christmas--shedding Watcher!Dawn like a heavy cloak.   
  
  
Leaving behind the tasteful detritus of her other self, Dawn slips into Faith's side of the bed, pulling the covers slowly over them. Faith stirs, but doesn't awaken, making a fussy scritching sound in her throat when Dawn drapes an arm over her waist.  
  
  
The last time she'd called Dawn had been seventeen hours ago, just before she left in Mali. A quick check-in--Faith made sure to call every day, faithfully, haha--to say mission accomplished, zero perspiration, home in two days, three max.  
  
  
 _Everything's fine, Dawnie . . . miss you, babe. . . ._  
  
  
A rather less quick call to Andrew's rooms at the Kampala Chapterhouse--three fifteen a.m., local time but she'd had to know--had gotten Dawn a whispered, but somewhat more detailed account of the events leading to Drusilla's capture.  
  
  
Not that he'd been tactless enough to say so, but Andrew's lines are easy to read between: Faith'd come damn close to death before Willow could batter down Drusilla's magics enough for him to complete the curse that restored her soul.  
  
  
"It was a titanic struggle between the forces of good and evil. Despite the many sacrifices made, it didn't seem as if the dark Slayer would be able to occupy the Vampyress long enough for Witch and Watcher to see her ensouled," he'd intoned dramatically, though the effect was somewhat ruined by having to raise his voice over the snoring in the background.  
  
  
Then, as if realizing that none of that could be construed as comforting, he'd added: "But Willow and I were triumphant in the end only because Faith totally kicked her ass.”  
  
  
Recalling the too-relaxed, too-cavalier tone of Faith's checking-in call--the wearinness underneath barely hidden by a crumbling-thin veneer of badass--Dawn had still been less than comforted. “Yeah, go Team-White Hat--but how'd she seem  _afterwards_?”  
  
  
“Um--” Andrew trying to choose his words, as opposed to just blurting out whatever it is gave Dawn the wiggins. “Quietly flushed with victory . . . and a little limpy,” he admited.   
  
  
Dawn'd seen Faith get hit in the knee with a two-by-four, and she'd never seen Faith limp. Had seen Faith get thrown out of a second-story window, roll to her feet, and resume kicking the ass of the demon who did the throwing . . . and she'd never seen Faith limp. "But how did she  _seem_? Besides quiet, victorious and limpy, I mean?"   
  
  
 _Did she do the lips-purse-y thing that means she's trying not to throw punches? Or the lips-purse-y thing that means she's trying not to cry?_ Did _she cry? She didn't cry, did she?_  Dawn had wondered.  _Or did she realize that if she can take on one-quarter of the Scourge of Europe without me or the dubious benefit of my knowledge, she can take on the_ world _without me?_  
  
  
"Really? She just seemed happy to leave," Andrew had said, his voice colored with  _and we weren't exactly sorry to see her go_. “You're all she talked about when she wasn't complaining about the heat or going over strategies . . . and she was really professional when she fought.”  
  
  
"Because she didn't need me." The thought had slipped out on a resigned sigh. Of course Faith didn't really need her. Not anymore. Faith was born a survivor. She knows more about staying alive than Dawn ever will. Three weeks in Africa, pitting her wits against one of the longest-lived vampires on record must have shown her that.  
  
  
If the disastrous end of her six months as Xander's apprentice hadn't been proof enough, this is: Africa? Is  _so_  not Dawn's lucky continent.  
  
  
"No . . . because she did. Still does! You're totally Qui-Gon Jinn to her Obi-Wan Kenobe--Rupert Giles to her Buffy Summers!" If Andrew had been at all bitter about his relatively brief tour of duty as Faith's interim-Watcher, it certainly didn't show. “Before you, Faith was a good Slayer. But because of you she's a great Slayer. I've never seen her more calm or focused in a fight than she was when we finally found Drusilla. She was  _amazing_."  
  
  
“Duh, of course she was. She's Faith.” Dawn had snorted, wondering when Andrew, of all people, became a judge of calm or focus.   
  
  
Maybe it had something to do with being reassigned to Uganda . . . where he works directly under the East Africa SW, Alexander Harris.  
  
  
“Uganda really agrees with you,” she'd said, unable to repress the smile on her face or in her voice. Despite both verbalized and non-verbalized agreement between the other Scoobies--including Mr. Giles--to ignore Xander and Andrew's relationship till one or the other of them makes it officially known, Dawn was willing to latch onto anything to take her mind off of Faith, Africa and her own limitations. “You always sound so happy when I talk to you, lately.”  
  
  
"I do? I mean . . . I am. Really. Happy.” He was blushing and grinning if Dawn's any judge.  
  
  
“Really . . . do tell?” What started as a distraction had turned into genuine interest. Today could be the day, and she could be the first to get the skinny on 'Xandrew' as Buffy calls them.  
  
  
“Well, I--am gonna have to call you later." Andrew'd gone from shyly confessing to breathlessly distracted in the space of a sentence. Dawn had then realized the snoring in the background had stopped, and sleepy, wheedling murmurs has taken their place. "We'll catch up, I promise."  
  
  
"You  _so_  owe me details, Mister! Like, eight months worth at least!"  
  
  
"I know, I--hey!" A distant, indignant huff, then: "Xander, give it back!"   
  
  
Andrew had sounded pouty but not particularly annoyed. In fact, he'd been giggling. After a few seconds the giggles melted into a soft moan that turned Dawn bright pink. She was reluctantly considering hanging up when a sleep-rough voice spoke.  
  
  
"He'll call ya later, Dawnie. G'night."   
  
  
"'Night, Xand--"  
  
  
She'd been talking to the dial tone at that point, but as far as Dawn was concerned the cat was officially out of the bag. In the spirit of keeping herself well and truly distracted, she'd immediately emailed Buffy, cc-ing Willow, Mr. Giles, Vi, Connor and even Faith, on the off-chance she bothered to check her email before flying home.   
  
  
But fifteen mostly sleepless hours later, finally curled up with Faith, in their bed, Dawn's insecurities about her skills as a Watcher have returned, just as silly and selfish as before. Whether her training had made a difference, maybe  _the_ difference that'd kept Faith alive--is a question she may never have the answer to.  
  
  
Covered in bruises, very much the worse for wear, Faith is still  _alive_. What matters beyond that?  
  
  
Of course, that's not a Watcher's rationale, but a lover's. When the square-bear office clothes go back on, Dawn knows she'll interrogate Faith about the details of the fight as relentlessly as Mr. Giles surely had.  
  
  
If there's a lesson in the answers--a way for Dawn to be a better Watcher and keep Faith alive for even five seconds longer, she means to have it, dissect it and use it ruthlessly.  
  
  
But later. Now . . . it's just so good to simply  _have_  Faith.  
  
  
"You know--I always thought it'd make me feel all warm and fuzzy to have my girlfriend watch me sleep," Faith murmurs, her purplish cheek curving upward slightly. The hand that takes Dawn's is warm and strong, calloused and scraped. Their fingers link together automatically, the familiarity and laziness of a dozen Sundays settling over her ragged nerves. "But it's actually kinda creepy."  
  
  
Dawn sighs and pulls Faith closer, kissing her shoulder. "How long've you been awake?"  
  
  
"Long enough that I got sick of hearin' gears grind." Faith tries to roll over, but let's Dawn hold her in place. Squirms back again her in a way that makes Dawn want to find out if she's wearing underwear. "What're you thinkin' so hard about, babe?"  
  
  
Burying her face in Faith's hair—breathing in the scent of shampoo, hairspray and the spicy-dark scent of hash: the scents of home and safety--Dawn closes eyes that suddenly sting and burn with tears.  
  
  
A second later, she's shaking and holding onto Faith far too tightly. “I'm so glad you're back, that you're . . . okay?” Guilt takes Dawn like a sickness. She shouldn't have to ask how her Slayer is. She should know.  _Would_  know if Africa wasn't off limits.  
  
  
“I'm five-by-five.”  
  
  
“Good.” Dawn closes her eyes and breathes in Faith's scent, lets it calm her. “I'm  _never_  letting you go on another assignment without me. I don't care if it's to the surface of the sun.” Her voice is steady, not too high or low, but it sounds off. Like someone else is speaking through her.  
  
  
"What if it's to Africa again?”  
  
  
“That won't happen.”  
  
  
“But what if it does?”  
  
  
“What, you like Africa so much you're already planning your next trip?” She means it to come out snarky, smart-alecky, but it just sounds small and miserable.   
  
  
Faith tenses like she's about to snark back, but she holds her peace. After a few silent minutes, she says, “Eventually you're gonna need to talk about it, whatever it is.”  
  
  
 _It_ \--what happened in Africa, why Dawn left halfway through her apprenticeship--has never gone beyond Xander, Willow and Mr. Giles but it's no secret that in the two years since then, she'd never gone back.  
  
  
Never talked much about her time there, not even when Faith tentatively asked--tentatively for Faith, anyway--what Africa was like.  
  
  
“Hot,” Dawn had said, clipped and evasive. “Pretty, stark, dangerous.” Behind her eyes, a golden sort of green had pulsed and shone, briefly blotting out silly things like thought, feeling or conscience. Light that spreads, dissolves, breaks down walls and makes everything  _one_. “Hot.”  
  
  
Dawn hadn't offered any more and Faith had never asked for it. She never asks for more, whether she wants it or not, whether she needs it or not. For once, that's something Dawn's grateful for.  
  
  
“Not today,” she says in a tone that means  _not ever_.  
  
  
A frustrated pause that's so brief, Dawn's not sure she isn't imagining it. “Yeah, well, I didn't think so, but whenever you're ready, I'm here.”  
  
  
“I know.” She squeezes Faith's hand, brings it up to her lips to kiss it. Her fingers are too cool for Dawn's liking. When left to her own devices, Faith has a tendency to live on nothing but coffee, Slim-Jims and Pibb Xtra. Dawn knows for a fact that the last two? Aren't so easy to come by, outside the US. “How was it having Xander as your Watcher for almost a month?”  
  
  
Faith magnanimously decides to accept the unsubtle change of subject with no fuss. “He wasn't  _you_ , but he was a good Watcher. It was . . . weird, though.” There's history there, between Xander and Faith--something that had happened around the time Faith went rogue. It hasn't kept them from being friends, after a fashion, but neither seem inclined to talk about it.  
  
  
“But how many Slayers get to have a Senior Watcher ordering them around, hunh? That's like being bossed around by royalty.” Dawn grins, momentarily allowing herself to picture Xander done up in royal regalia. With Andrew as his queen.  
  
  
“Senior Watcher or not, he's not  _my_  Watcher. I mean--he didn't give me a single backrub all the time I was there.”  
  
  
“What a jerk. Saving 'em all for Andrew, huh?”  
  
  
“Probably.”  
  
  
“He shouldn't have had to be your Watcher. You've already got one, and I should have been there." Her own inadequacy stings like shame, partly because she's grown unused to feeling inadequate, partly because what'd happened in Africa had been avoidable, despite what Mr. Giles and Willow claim. "I will be, next assignment. I promise.”  
  
  
“Hopefully that next assignment'll be a permanent one. In Vegas.” Is all Faith says, and Dawn loves her fiercely for that, and holds her tighter.   
  
  
"Monte Carlo," Dawn says. "The museums are better."   
  
  
“Better or worse, I dislike all museums equa-- _fuck_ ,” Faith coughs, laughter in her voice. “I missed you, too, but ease up a little? My ribs are still kinda tender.”  
  
  
'Kinda tender' is probably Faith-parlance for  _broken_. Dawn eases her panic-tight grip to something that resembles an actual embrace. “I'm surprised Medical sent you home so soon, let alone Mr. Giles.”  
  
  
Suspicious silence and tense muscles tell Dawn what she needs to know. “Should I be expecting a call from Dr. Shah and Mr. Giles, or just Dr. Shah?”  
  
  
“I rest and recupe much better in my own bed, with my girl beside me. I'll be okay. Granted, I look like Faithenstein, but I'll be okay. You trained me real good, right? Zero perspiration, remember?”  
  
  
"Yeah, right, Fibby McLiarson.” Dawn kisses the top of her head like she's a kid and earning a contented, if slightly pained sigh. The surprise of surprises about having Faith as a girlfriend? The amount of cuddling that gets had. Faith's a shameless cuddle-whore and makes no bones about it. “I know it was a close fight.”  
  
  
Faith chuckles and there's a hint of groan in it. One thing's for sure. Dawn's taking her Slayer to Dr. Heffron to get those ribs checked again before the day is out, then tucking her in for dinner-in-bed, pampering and more cuddling. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”  
  
  
“She nearly  _killed_  you and Willow.” Another shudder escapes before Dawn can stop it.  
  
  
“But she didn't.”  
  
  
"I could've lost you."  
  
  
“But--”  
  
  
 _\--Mr. Giles kneels over Buffy's still body, head hanging, glasses off and forgotten in dusty fingers, then on the dusty rubble. Tears, softer, quieter and somehow more surprising than Spike's cut trails down his dirty cheeks and he looks so_ old _. Not in the usual adult way, but old in some essential,_ mortal _way that Dawn's only just learned to recognize and oh, God, Buffy can't be_ dead _, the hero doesn't_ die--  
  
  
“--I didn't,” Dawn finishes softly. Because the hero  _doesn't_  die. At least not for long.   
  
  
This time when Faith tries to turn over, Dawn doesn't stop her--steels herself, but isn't ready for two fading black eyes, a split lip, reset nose and three diagonal scratches from Faith's right jaw, all the way up to her left temple.  
  
  
Those deep red scratches had only narrowly missed Faith's eyes . . . beautiful, vibrant eyes that could've been damaged or destroyed, and there would've been nothing, not one. God. Damned. Thing Dawn could've done about it. Not from half the world away.  
  
  
“I--I know how fucked up I look,” Faith says, looking away for a moment, then meeting Dawn's eyes again with an anxious smile. “But you should see the other guy, right?”  
  
  
“Right.” The other guy, who wasn't actually a guy or a girl, but an it that should've been dust a long time ago. That'd  _be_  dust right now if Faith hadn't had to keep her undead and occupied just long enough for Andrew to shove a soul back into her on the orders of the New Council and some prophecy, or other.  
  
  
“Gotta admit, after awhile I got tired, sloppy.” Faith smiles ruefully and shakes her head. “I was too showy in the beginning, wasted my energy. Big-timin'.”  
  
  
Dawn reaches up to brush careful fingertips across the swollen, too-warm planes of Faith's face. “Andrew said you were very professional. That doesn't sound like you were big-timing, to me.”  
  
  
"Yeah?" There's a twinkle of weary amusement in Faith's eyes that's surprisingly not at odds with her bruised face. Then she tucks her face into the crook of Dawn's neck, inhaling deeply when Dawn gathers her close. “I'm surprised he notices anything at all, what with Xander's hand down his pants.”  
  
  
Dawn snorfles. “To hear him tell it, Lehane versus Mortimer was the fight of the century.”  
  
  
Faith exhales a slow stream of air on Dawn's collarbone, neither agreeing or disagreeing with Andrew's assessment.   
  
  
“I really wish I could've seen you. I'm so proud of you.”  
  
  
“Ah, I didn't--” she makes a very tiny noise that's not quite a whimper. “I didn't do anything except get punked, and beat to hell, Dawn.”  
  
  
“You brought Drusilla in undusted. Not even Buffy ever did that. And now, we've got a vampire Seer with a soul. All because of you.” She squeezes Faith carefully, tenderly.  
  
  
“No. All because of Red and Andy and Xander. They did the dangerous spells, and fought off Drusilla's minions. You know what I did? I--barely--kept that undead skank entertained long enough for them to put the whammy on her!”  
  
  
“You're my hero, Faith. I'm so proud of you,” Dawn says, leaning back so she can look into Faith's eyes, but Faith seems determined to prevent that, her gaze locked somewhere south of Dawn's chin.  
  
  
“That was all I could think about while I was over there. You, touching me, telling me I did good,” comes out in a low, breathless murmur. “And I didn't want you to think I died doin' something stupid.”  
  
  
“Sweetheart, you know I wouldn't think that,” Dawn says, dismayed that Faith may have been taking the occasional cracks about big-timing seriously. Faith  _does_  occasionally kick the flair into overdrive during fights, but not often, not when expediency is what's called for.  _Never_  when others' lives are at stake. “Omigod, you don't think I'd think that, do you?”  
  
  
“No, babe, I meant--” Faith sits up with a grunt and runs her hands through her hair. “Damn, I'm, uh . . . no good at sayin' stuff like this. . . .”   
  
  
“Just do the best you can. I'll understand,” Dawn promises, more than slightly confused, more than slightly worried. She sits up too and puts her hand on Faith's back, rubbing circles and figure eights over too-prominent shoulder blades and spine. "I'm smart like that."  
  
  
“Yeah, you are." Faith's lips quirk upward in a smile or a grimace, and she pulls Dawn's other hand up to her cheek for a moment then links their fingers together. "I used to be so scared you'd get sick of me and leave, or that some _thing_  would take you away from me. I was happier with you than I've ever been in my life, and I lost sleep at night, wondering when the other shoe was gonna drop.”   
  
  
Dawn lays her head on Faith's shoulder. Keeps her own peace for the moment, finding silent support to be the better part of valor for once.  
  
  
"Then Africa--I was so sure Drusilla was gonna kill me, and all I could think about was:  _this_  was the other shoe, and  _I_  was the one who was leaving, only . . . I wasn't gonna let her take me away from you."  
  
  
She takes a deep breath and finally looks at Dawn. The wall in her eyes--neither thick nor tall where Dawn's concerned, but always there--has crumbled. Her smile, despite the bruises and stitches, is luminous with happiness.  
  
  
“I love ya, Dawnie,” she says, laughing a little. Probably at the way Dawn's eyes are widening, but Dawn can't help it. Not that Faith loving her is a surprise; her eyes have been saying what she hasn't. But there's still a difference between surmising and hearing, believing and knowing. "Have for awhile, but I didn't wanna jinx it. Jinx  _us_. But fuck that, I almost  _died_  a few days ago without tellin' you you're the best thing that ever happened to me and I love you so damn much."  
  
  
Though Dawn's only response so far is to sit there, totally gobstruck, Faith doesn't seem to mind. Pulls Dawn close, for a few moments hugging her tight enough to hurt them both, then loosening her grip and laying them back down. They automatically shift into their sleeping positions: Dawn's arm and leg over Faith's waist and legs, respectively, Faith's arms around her like all the love and home she'll ever need.  
  
  
"Anyone or anything that wants to try and get between us? Can bring it right the fuck on, 'cause  _I'm_  not lettin' go without a fight. Are you?" She whispers against Dawn's forehead.  
  
  
It takes a few seconds for to realize this isn't a rhetorical question. "Never letting go."   
  
  
"Good."  
  
  
A glance up a Faith's face shows that same open smile which Dawn returns, wondering if she'll ever get tired of seeing it.   
  
  
Doesn't imagine she will.  
  
  
"Really gotta kiss you, now--" she breathes, but Faith beats her to it.  
  



	5. Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vampire with a soul receives a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.  
> Notes: Set Post-NFA/Chosen. No spoilers.

“Here.”  
  
Drusilla peers into living green-gold energy that pulses and shines through its veil of lovely-young-woman. Accepts the keys she'd created from ink and paper, instinct and madness.   
  
“I'd thought them torn to bits in Prague, along with my dolls. Thank you,” she whispers, entranced by two fans of color and foresight.   
  
“I'll . . . check in again--see how you're holding up.” Then the sheep's-clothing woman is gone from the cell, taking with her a smile innocent and merciless as love.   
  
Drusilla draws the first key.  
  
 _Queen of Cups_. . . .  
  
. . . it tears as easily as any useless paper.


End file.
